


Tight Lips and Cold Feet

by mmaree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Broken Engagement, Co-workers, Confused Harry, Drinking, Emotional Infidelity, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Not Cheating, POV Harry, Smut, Writer Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/pseuds/mmaree
Summary: He remembers an intensity of feelings but not a lot of words.  He recalls drunken laughter with mates, sunny days and shy smiles, shit weed and tattoo parlours, cold sheets and burning touches.  Harry recalls a fantasy where real life took a backseat, where all that mattered was that they were young and alive.At some point, Harry got scared.  He needed something he could hold on to, something he could be sure of.  But the more he dug for reassurance, the more Zayn clammed up.And the more they f*cked.Maybe Zayn saved his words for his books when he should have spoken them aloud.  Maybe Harry should have ended it better instead of running away like a coward.Then again, maybe he should just stop dwelling on the past.Or the one where Harry gets cold feet.  Three years later, Harry’s an editor and Zayn is the new writer he’s been assigned to work with.They have a lot more than just a book to work out.





	Tight Lips and Cold Feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkzarrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkzarrie/gifts).



> Thank you to darkzarrie for the amazing prompt, to our incomparable mod for running this exchange, and to the lovely Amanda for looking this over for me. 
> 
> (Title is from "Animals" by Pink Floyd because nothing says 'Zarry' like Pink Floyd.)

 

“Styles, I have a book for you,” Vivian reveals as she dusts off a speck from her cream skirt suit.  The New York City skyline behind her is imposing, but it’s got nothing on the gorgon-like editorial director of the sixth-largest publishing house in the city. 

“Brilliant.”  Harry breathes a sigh of relief.  He hasn’t had an assignment in several weeks, and truth be told, he’s been getting anxious.  Instead, he’s been stuck doing copyediting, even though he supposedly got out of that department months ago.  The thing is, he’s got nothing against copyediting in theory.  It gave him a start in the business, and he’s more than decent at it.  But it’s also sort of painfully tedious…like watching paint dry…while listening to lift music…while having your fingernails slowly removed, one-by-one.

Vivian looks down her patrician nose at him.  “Yes, and don’t screw this one up, Styles.  This kid’s got potential.”

So it’s technically not Harry’s fault that his last author crapped out on him, deciding to give up on his book because he needed to ‘go find himself’ in Nepal, but that’s not how Vivian sees it.  She blames Harry for the one before that as well, the author who got hit by a bus while crossing 48th and Park.  (Harry’s got rotten luck.) 

He tries for an easy smile.  “Third time’s a charm, right?”

“Yes, or three strikes you’re out, Styles,” Vivian declares sharply with her dry-as-a-martini humour.   “But I have a good feeling about this one.  The author’s hip and young, and he’s English, too.”

“Still living in England then?”

“No, he’s local.  He’s got a rather dreadful accent as British accents go—even worse than yours—but I suppose that can’t be helped,” she hums regretfully as Harry tries to hide his amusement.  “In any case, I feel you two are really going to click.”

Harry certainly hopes so.  “What’s the book about?”

She clucks her tongue.  “What do I always say about that?”

“That an editor should get their first impression of a book from the horse’s mouth,” Harry parrots back.  He’s heard it enough times.

She nods approvingly.  “Yes, I’m not going to taint your view of the work.  All I’ll say is that it’s about unrequited love—really heart-wrenching stuff.  Artistic but commercial at the same time.”

“Your favourite.”

Vivian winks.  “Don’t you know it.”

“New author?”

“No…he actually made a splash with his first novel.  That one was picked up by a smaller house—you know, one of those fleapits that’s one step above self-publishing and three steps less profitable for the author?”

Harry knows.  He worked for one of those houses for a short time, and by all accounts, he’ll be working for one again if this new assignment doesn’t pan out.

Either that, or he’ll be serving a life sentence down in copyediting.  He can’t decide what’s worse at the moment.

“Anyway,” Vivian continues, patting her perfectly-coiffed silvery hair back into place, “his last book sold droves through word-of-mouth and social media, but the publishing house sat on it when it had the potential to become a New York Times Bestseller.  Utter travesty.”

“So he has a fanbase then?”

“To an extent—he’s changing genres a bit, and you know how that can be,” she prattles on.  “He’s writing a straight-up fiction novel this go.  The last one bordered on sci-fi.”

Harry purses his lips.  As a line editor, he doesn’t do sci-fi, and Vivian knows that.  It’s not that Harry’s got anything against the genre—he’s up for a Lord of the Rings marathon as much as the next bloke—it’s just that he always seems to get drowned in the world-building.  Copyediting science fiction is bad enough, but line editing it would be a headache-and-a-half. 

Besides, if he’s got to impress Vivian with this assignment, there’s no way he’s going to be able to do it with science fiction.  “Sci-fi _how_?” 

“Well, his first book was basically a love story…just the main characters were aliens, that’s all,” Vivian tells him.  The editorial director rolls her eyes when she sees his panicked look.  “Don’t worry, Styles.  This one’s set on planet Earth.  Just make the book as good as you can, make it your top priority until I say otherwise, and I’ll handle the rest.”

“Sounds like a plan, boss.”

A buzzer goes off, and Vivian looks ecstatic.  “Ooh that must be him!” she sings out.  A second later, the office door opens and in walks Zayn Malik. 

And Harry’s going to be sick.

 

## ***

 

(Three Years Earlier)

 

“Got cold feet?” Louis jokes, and Harry can barely look at the older boy.  He’s the best man—Harry’s best man, at any rate.  Zayn’s best man is his cousin, Jawaad.  The cousin Harry’s never met because they’ve only been dating three months.  The cousin Harry’s never met because he hasn’t even met Zayn’s mum and dad, for crying out loud.

Three months dating and one month engaged—not even.  It’s been exactly twenty-eight days because that was the minimum notice required by the local registrar office.

Twenty-eight days.

Twenty- _eight_ freaking days.  (What was he even thinking?)

“Oh my God,” Louis whistles, shaking his head in disbelief.  “You’re bloody serious, aren’t you?  You want to call it off.  You actually want to call it off."

Harry takes a deep breath, forces himself to look in his best mate’s eyes.  “I…I can’t do this.  I don’t know what I was thinking, but I can’t get married today.”

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Louis groans, checking his watch because they’ve only got about twenty minutes before the ceremony is supposed to begin.  Harry’s family and friends are already out there.  So’s the officiant, Zayn’s cousin Jawaad (who, once again, Harry’s never met), Zayn’s parents (again, Harry’s never had the pleasure), and half of Cheshire.  They’re all squeezed into the Council Chamber of Chester Hall, and—

Harry’s going to be sick.

Louis seems poorly as well, a little sea greenish in colour as he stares blankly ahead.  “You couldn’t have figured this out before now?”

“When?  We haven’t even been engaged for a month, and I’ve spent the whole of that time planning this wedding and getting my life sorted.”

“What’s there to sort?” Louis scoffs.  “You’ve getting married.  You’ve just finished uni—with a first, I might add—and you’ve already been promised a job with your dad’s company.  I mean, I wouldn’t exactly say you’re cacking it, mate.”

Harry bites his lip.  “Remember, um, when I applied for that internship thingy?  In New York, I mean?”

“Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Well, I got it,” Harry cuts him off.  “I got the internship, Lou.”

Louis sucks in a breath and collapses next to Harry in an elegantly-carved chair that would look lovely in his nan’s front room.  Maybe Harry will try to find one like it at an antique shop in town, try to make up for some of the trouble and expense he’s needlessly put his family though.

“When did you find out?”

“Huh?” Harry blinks.

Louis rolls his eyes.  “The internship.  When did you find out you got it?”

“Last, er, Monday.”

“Last _Monday_!” Louis shrieks, springing out of his chair like he’s just sat on a pin.  Harry would find the whole thing comical if it weren’t for the fact that he’s having a complete mental breakdown at the moment. 

Louis paces back and forth for a minute, alternately wringing his hands and knuckling his forehead.  “Did you tell Zayn—about the internship, I mean?”

“Never got around to it.”

Louis seems like he’s about to make a snide comment, but being the solid lad he is, bites it back.  “So what makes you think Zayn wouldn’t be supportive of the internship opportunity?  I mean, I haven’t known him all that long, but he seems like a top lad to me.”

“You just like him because he’s from Yorkshire.”

Louis grins cheekily.  “Not gonna lie…his Yorkshire heritage doesn’t hurt his appeal, mate.  But seriously, why are you doubting him?  Is there something I don’t know?”

Harry hums.  It’s hard to explain, the niggling doubts plaguing him.  “I just don’t know how he’d react,” he settles on.

“Well, he bloody well asked you to marry him, didn’t he?”

Harry sighs.  “The internship is for six months, Lou.  That’s twice the amount of time we’ve been together.”

“So?  You were the wanker who thought it was a quality idea to get hitched to someone you barely knew.  Why are you waffling now?”

“I’m only 22.”

“And he’s only 23.  Also, I’m pretty sure you were 22 when you rang me up at the crack ass of dawn to tell me you were engaged…and to share a few other things I’ll never be able to un-hear unfortunately.”  Louis shivers and Harry can’t help but blush remembering the embarrassing phone call.

“It’s not just the internship, Lou, it’s everything.”  Harry gives his best man a long-suffering look.  “I just can’t go through with it; I’m not ready.”

“Sorry if I’m being thick,” Louis starts not unkindly, “but why’d you say ‘yes’ when he asked you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replies despondently.  “Because I didn’t want to turn him down?  Because I didn’t know what else to say, and we were both pissed, and it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time?”

“And now?”

“Now I’m not sure about anything.”

It’s true, too.  He feels like everything’s moving too fast, like he hasn’t had a second to catch his breath in months.

When he met Zayn at the library that day, his slight frame buried behind a tall stack of books (one of which Harry needed for a paper), they clicked immediately.  Everything seemed impossibly right with Zayn from the first and maybe that was the problem.  It was too much too soon.

But now, this thing they’re about to enter into, it’s forever.

(And Harry’s not ready for forever—especially since Zayn, in all his glorious reticence, hasn’t exactly assured Harry that _he’s_ ready for forever either.)

Harry swallows the lump in his throat, looks away as he discretely wipes away a single tear.  He can’t help but take a second to admire the changing room he’s been assigned.  It’s beautiful, all rich reds and decadent panelling, and just what he imagined on his wedding day.  It’s why he picked this venue really—that, and the fact that it was close to home (and not terribly far from Zayn’s hometown either).  Besides, Zayn fancied the gothic building’s exterior, said they’d have ‘sick’ wedding photos to show their grandkids one day.

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, eying him like Harry’s just as fragile as he feels, “I don’t mean to rush ya, but you should probably decide what you want to do right now.  Niall just texted me that Zayn’s already out there waiting for you to walk down the aisle.”

Harry panics; he didn’t realise it was getting so late.  He had hoped to come to a final decision before the boy went out there but everything’s gone pear-shaped.  Even so, he should talk to Zayn face-to-face and tell him how he feels.  It’s the least he should do.

Or he could just leave. 

That might be the better option actually.  It would prevent the hushed whispers and faux concerns that would accompany Louis going out to fetch Zayn and bring him back here.  It would also prevent any scene between the two of them. 

Louis clears his throat.  “So what do you want me to do?”

 

## ***

 

Harry blinks a few times just to make certain that the man standing before him in Vivian’s office actually is Zayn.  He even pinches himself to ensure Zayn’s not some mirage after too many hours spent in front of a computer screen.

Vivian’s thinly-veiled threat echoes in his ears _:  three strike you’re out, Styles_.  It may have been said in jest, but even so, it’s clear she sees Harry as the guy who can’t close the deal.  Harry can’t afford to turn down assignments like this. 

But Zayn can evidently.  “I’m sorry, but I’d like to request someone else,” he grunts, folding his tattooed arms across his chest.  Harry can see that he’s gotten several new ones, and he wonders what they are, wonders if Zayn’s finally beaten him, wonders when they stopped keeping score.

Vivian shoots Harry a look.  It’s an oh-no-not-one-of-these-primadonna-moody-authors-who-we’re-going-to-have-to-handhold kind of look.  She’s all smiles when she turns back to Zayn though.  “Unfortunately, all of our other line editors are tied up with other projects so unless you want to delay your book by six months, I’d highly suggest you reconsider.  I know Harry will be dedicated to spending as much time as it takes to make your book the best it can be.”

Harry cringes when he thinks about the amount of time they’ll have to spend together.  Hours and hours and hours spent in-person, on phone calls, or emailing back and forth.

Zayn stiffens; that fact must have dawned on him, too.  “What happened to the editor who read the draft I sent in?  Why can’t I have her?”

Vivian smiles tightly.  “She only does acquisitions, darling.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to insist,” Zayn states resolutely.  “I want a different editor.  I just don’t think this will work out.”

Vivian can’t hide her frustration at this point.  “Why don’t you two go have a nice lunch…on the house.  Zayn, it’ll give you a chance to tell Harry about your novel in greater detail and share your vision for its publication.  What do you say?”

Harry’s standing behind her, and he sees Zayn, sees the way his mouth is already forming a ‘no.’  That’s when Harry begs, literally pleads with his eyes until Zayn changes his mind.

“Fine, we’ll have lunch,” Zayn surrenders, but he’s not happy about it.  Then again, Harry doesn’t expect him to be.

 

## ***

 

Harry tries to smile like he means it, like it isn’t excruciatingly uncomfortable to be sitting across from the guy he left at the proverbial altar two years ago.  “So, what’s the book about?”

“Same old shit.”  Zayn glances around the café like he doesn’t want to be there either, fingers drumming on the table.  He just ordered an appetiser, and Harry half-suspects it’s because he doesn’t want to prolong this business lunch any longer than necessary.

Harry tries again.  “Could you be more specific perhaps?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gonna need to explain what the novel’s about at some point and you might as well start now,” Harry says, and Zayn still doesn’t look convinced.  “Please, it’s important,” he begs.

“Fine,” Zayn exhales.  “It’s about, like, unrequited love.”

“I already knew that.”  Harry doesn’t mean to sound testy, but he’s really not in the mood for Zayn’s pithy, tight-lipped answers right now.  And to tell the truth, it’s beyond him how Zayn could write a one-hundred-thousand-word novel when it’s this torturous to get ten bloody words out of him.  (Always has been, too.)

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “It’s about relationships, about life, about finding one’s self, yeah?”

“Well, that’s vague as shit,” Harry complains.  “Can’t you give me a little more to go on than that?”

“I don’t know how to bloody describe it, Harry,” Zayn huffs.  “It’s a fucking novel, okay?  A proper novel, fiction-like.”

“For adults?” Harry questions.

“For whoever the fuck wants to read it.”

Harry removes the cherry from the glass and takes a swig of his Manhattan.  He’s not usually one to drink during the work day but drastic times and all that.  “So it’s not about aliens?” he verifies.

“No.”

“Any extraterrestrials at all in the book?”

“No.”

“Superheroes?”

“No.”

“Super powers or comic book elements of any sort?”

“ _No_ ,” Zayn snaps.  “Told you it was a straight-up novel so stop asking me shit like that.”

“Well _sorry_ , but how am I supposed to know you’ve decided to write stories for grown-ups now?”

Zayn narrows his eyes, and for half a moment, Harry’s afraid he’s going to get up and leave, piss off back into the past where he belongs.  (Honestly, Harry wouldn’t blame him if he did.) 

But he doesn’t.  Zayn just clenches his jaw and stares at Harry for what has to be the longest minute of his life.  “When’d you become such a pretentious ass?” Zayn demands at last.  “What happened to the decent, sensitive bloke I used to know or maybe he skived off that day in Chester, too?”

It’s a good question.  It’s a bloody great question actually.

The truth of the matter is that Harry shouldn’t be taking out the unfairness of his current predicament on Zayn.  It’s not the other boy’s fault that they’re in this mess.  Besides, Harry knows Zayn’s not likely to agree to this editing arrangement if he’s being a jerk.  Harry’s the desperate one now.  He can’t afford another ‘strike’ where Vivian’s concerned—whatever the excuse.

Harry searches for his humility before he meets Zayn’s gaze again.  “I really didn’t mean to act like a dick just now, it’s just…it’s a lot seeing you after all this time, yeah?”

Zayn grunts, pretends to be interested in the tablecloth, and Harry takes it as a cue to press on.  “Look, I can’t change the past, but I think it’s all worked out for the best.  We’re both following the paths we’re meant to have been following, yeah?   I mean, look at you—you’re a published author, mate.  Living the dream and all that.”

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling, but Harry can read him like a book.  He can see the proud, embarrassed look Zayn can’t chase away.  “Yeah, having a proper go at it anyway.”

Harry swallows.  He knows it’s time to lay all his cards on the table whether he wants to or not.  It’s the only way Zayn’s going to agree to this. 

He breathes deep, then pinches the bridge of his nose.  No one told him it was going to be this hard.  “I don’t want to sway you one way or the other—actually, that’s a lie,” Harry admits with a sigh.  “I do want to convince you to let me edit your book, Zayn, because the thing is I need this job.  You know how much I’ve wanted to be an editor for a major publishing house, and Vivian’s as good as told me that if I muck this assignment up, I’m gone.”

Zayn’s shocked, either by his honesty or by the fact that Harry’s practically begging him at this point.  “Why would she give you the sack, Haz?  She’d be stupid to let you go; you were always the best at everything.”

Harry smiles weakly at the compliment.  Sometimes he wishes real life was as easy as uni was; wishes it was as well-laid-out; wishes he had someone telling him which lectures to attend and what modules he needed.  “I’ve a run of bad luck, that’s all.  Now, Vivian thinks _I’m_ the bad luck, I suspect.”

Zayn nods slowly, processing what Harry’s just confided in him.  “You mean you’d actually _want_ to, like, work with me?”

“Yeah, I know I’m probably the last person you want messing about with your book, but I promise I’ll do a good job on it, Zayn; I swear I will.”

Zayn takes a minute to think it over, his eyes a gold-flecked storm.  Finally, when Harry’s sure he can’t take the suspense a second longer, Zayn stares back at him, voice cool and steady. 

“Alright, Harry—you win.  Let’s tell Vivian.”

 

## ***

 

The first two weeks are deceptively easy.  Harry reads Zayn’s manuscript (and it’s bloody good, just as Vivian said).  He makes notes for himself—broad strokes of what he sees as the major themes while adding chapter and section titles to help him navigate.  He goes back and forth with Zayn about character motivations and important plot points.  He tries to get the big picture nailed down.

Then, the real work begins.  He plods through, section by section, page by page, paragraph by paragraph.  He tries to correct any glaring sentence-level errors as he goes, but for the most part, he’s focused on story and flow.  He makes suggestions for some cuts, and Zayn replies quickly with either an “okay” or a rationale for saving the section currently on the chopping block.  Every time Harry asks Zayn to consider rewriting something for clarity, it comes back even better than before, even better than he thought possible.

After a month, Harry thinks he’s fallen in love with Zayn’s voice.

To be perfectly clear, it’s his author’s voice that has Harry so enamoured.  He gets lost in it sometimes, overwhelmed by the brilliant, poignant writing until he has to step away from his laptop.  He often elects to take a walk when this happens, weaving through busy New Yorkers who don’t give him a second glance as he furiously recites notes into his phone’s recorder.

Harry’s just emailed the notes he’s typed up from his latest outing when he gets a speedy response back from Zayn:

 

> _There’s a lot here, ha!  Maybe we could meet over a cuppa tomorrow afternoon and discuss?_

Harry hesitates, fingers hovering over the keys of his laptop.  If it were any other author, he’d agree immediately, but it isn’t.  It’s his ex-fiancé, and Harry wants to keep this professional (and that’s a heck of a lot easier to do when they’re not staring at each other over a cup of java).  Furthermore, there’s a real and distinct possibility that any meeting between the two of them could quickly turn ugly, and he can’t afford that.  Not by a longshot.

“Hon, you still working?” Garrett inquires, laying a hand on his shoulder.  Harry jumps, then quickly minimises the window with Zayn’s email.  He doesn’t know why he does it; he’s got nothing to hide.

Harry smiles up at his boyfriend.  “Just finishing up, love.” 

“That’s what you said an hour ago,” Garrett ribs him, rubbing his clean-shaven jaw.  Harry can’t help but be reminded of what a catch this man is, the handsome environmental lawyer with the piercing blue eyes and slightly-peppered ash-brown hair.  They’ve been dating for nearly a year now—living together for a large chunk of that time—and still he can’t believe how lucky he is to have landed someone like Garrett.

Harry grins sheepishly.  “Mean it this time though.  Won’t be more than five minutes.” 

Garrett nods.  “This new one’s a needy author, isn’t he?” he asks, covering a yawn.  “What’s his name again?”

“Zayn.  Zayn Malik.”

“That’s right.  He’s the one you went to college with if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, that’s him.”  It’s not exactly a lie, and it’s not exactly the full truth either, but Harry likes to keep things simple.  It’s easier to just leave it at “a mate from uni” than explain that Zayn used to be his fiancé.  (Besides, Garrett doesn’t even know that Harry was engaged before.  It’s not that Harry’s hiding it, but he hasn’t really found the right time to bring it up with their busy work schedules and all.)

“Well, I think I’ll turn in,” Garrett announces, giving Harry a peck on the cheek.  “Big day in court tomorrow, you know.”

And oh, Harry probably should’ve remembered that.  “Maybe we could go out tomorrow night to celebrate?” he offers hopefully.

Garrett ruffles his hair.  “How do you know we’re going to win?”

“I’ve a feeling.”

“You and your feelings,” Garrett murmurs affectionately.  “I’ll text you tomorrow—and don’t stay up too late, yeah?”

Harry promises, then waits for Garrett to retreat into the bedroom before he reopens his email.  He stares at Zayn’s message for a long time, the cursor flashing expectantly.

Any number of things could go wrong if he sees Zayn again.  Weren’t they at each other’s throats the last time they met up in person?  Then again, he hopes they’ve moved past all that in the last month.  They’ve been professional, and there’s little reason to suspect a meeting in person would change that.  Zayn’s right.  For the good of the book, it’s time they met to get a few things sorted. 

Besides, he can’t exactly turn down an author’s request. 

Before he can change his mind, he types back a simple ‘yes’ and his number.  He’s still not positive he made the right choice as he closes his laptop, but it’s too late now to second-guess his decision.

After all, Harry can only imagine the slippery-slope which might ensue if he started second-guessing decisions— _especially_ those involving Zayn Malik.

 

## ***

 

Zayn draws a chair at the corner table where Harry’s been waiting so long his black coffee’s gone cold.  Zayn, on the other hand, carries a steaming-hot mug—chai, Harry guesses as the distinctive aroma wafts towards him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Zayn states casually, like Harry’s got nothing better to do than sit around a coffee shop on a Monday afternoon during work hours. 

“It’s fine,” he lies, “just try to get here earlier next time, okay?  We’ve got a lot to work through.”

Zayn nods contritely, then blows on his tea—small, concentrated puffs that make his cheekbones look criminally good.  “So from your email last night, I gathered you have an issue with the pacing in chapter three.  And just to be clear, I’m not about to let you take a hacksaw at it; that’s one of my favourite chapters, mate.”

“Do you trust me?” Harry asks, and he immediately wants to take it back.

“Do you _really_ want me to answer that?” Zayn deadpans.

“Um, let me rephrase:  have I steered you wrong with the edits so far?”

“No,” Zayn admits, lips set in a pout, “but I know how the big publishers are.  You might mean well now, but you’re gonna be pressured to hack it up to pieces, cut-cut-cut until it gets to a certain word count.”

“Word count is highly overrated.”

“You know what I mean,” Zayn grumbles.  “Your main goal is to make sure it fits nicely into those book binding thingamajigs—what are they called?”

“Signatures,” Harry supplies, “and I’m not going to bother about that now—and neither should you.”

“I’ll bother about whatever the bloody hell I feel like bothering about, thank you very much,” Zayn retorts, narrowing his eyes.  “And don’t tell me what to do, Harry.  Don’t you _dare_ tell me what to do.”

Harry knew this was a bad idea.  He knew it but agreed to the meeting anyway because he’s a first-class idiot.  And really, if Zayn is acting like a stroppy cow in the middle of a crowded Manhattan coffee shop, then Harry has no one to blame but himself.

Harry quickly realises he needs to de-escalate the situation before it gets any worse.  He’ll have to be honest and open, do everything in his power to get Zayn on his side.  It’s not going to be easy, especially with the eye-rolling going on across from him. 

“Oh, quit being a stroppy cow.”

(So maybe that wasn’t the best way to start.)

Zayn almost knocks over his cup, tea sloshing over the side as he saves it at the very last second.  “ _What_ did you just call me?”

Harry clears his throat.  “I…uh…didn’t mean to say that out loud.  It just sort of slipped out.”  He bites his lower lip and wonders if the death glare Zayn’s giving him right now is bad for his health.  (It can’t be good at any rate.)  “Would you, er, like some of my napkins?  I took some extra—shame about your tea.”

“Fuck the napkins,” Zayn curses, knocking the bunch out of Harry’s hand so that they scatter about the table.  “Fuck the tea, and fuck the idea that we could ever work together in a million years.”  He sits back in a huff, folding his arms over his chest.  “I wouldn’t trust you to take care of my pet rock let alone the book I’ve worked so hard on these past couple of years.”

“You have a pet rock?” Harry asks, making an attempt at light-heartedness.  Zayn just stares at him.  “Look, I’m sorry,” Harry sighs, starting to mop up the spill.  “That was a stupid thing to say, but I just got frustrated.  I’m tired of you treating me like I’m trying to sabotage your book or something.”

Zayn’s expression is stone cold.  “Aren’t you?” 

“No!  I need this to work as much as you do,” Harry reasons with him.  “I told you—my job’s on the line.”

Zayn takes a deep breath as his eyes search heavenward.  His shoulders rise and fall in the black leather jacket he’s wearing as he tries to control his anger.

Harry remembers the jacket well.  It’s Zayn’s favourite; the one he was wearing when they first met at the university library.  It gave Zayn a certain hardness, made Harry think twice before he bucked up enough courage to ask the stranger if he could borrow one of the books he didn’t seem to be using.  The jacket’s much the same although the leather appears slightly faded, worn from a few extra years of wear.  Harry almost likes it better now.  It has character, and character—as Vivian always says—is the most important thing.

Harry thinks about Vivian, about his lifelong dream to work as an editor at a major publishing house, and he knows he has to make this work.  Somehow. 

“I have an idea.  Since we’ve been able to keep everything at a relatively professional level online, why don’t we try to replicate that relationship here?”

Zayn once again trains his bored gaze on his companion.  “How do you propose we do that, Harry?”

“Well, for starters, we can try to stick to our assigned roles.”

“Which role would you like me to play then?” Zayn asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.  “Obedient wordsmith?  Cordial Co-worker?  _Jilted lover_?” 

Harry sucks in a breath, stares with disbelieving eyes at the man across from him.

“Yeah, I went there,” Zayn observes drily.  “Sorry if it fucks with the head cannons you’ve been telling yourself these past three years, the ones that help you sleep at night.”

Harry slams his laptop shut, chair scraping back as he rises to his feet in a rush.  “I think we’re done here.”

Zayn glares at him.  “Oh yes, Harry.  We are most definitely done.”

 

## ***

 

Harry’s made a proper mess of everything, a right balls-up of all his career aspirations in one go.  He only needs to wait for Vivian to tell him he’s off this assignment—off line editing permanently probably. 

On Tuesday, he’s a wreck, jumping every time someone so much as walks past his desk.  On Wednesday, it’s even worse.  By Thursday, Garrett’s starting to notice something’s off at home, but Harry just shrugs off his boyfriend’s attempts to get at the truth.  Meanwhile, he continues plugging away on Zayn’s manuscript, blindly hoping that whatever damage was done between them at the coffee shop wasn’t irrevocable.

On Friday, he thinks about packing it in.  He wonders if Zayn’s already told Vivian the whole story, and if she’s simply waiting for Harry to do the honourable thing, to come by her office to explain and apologise.  He’s about to go see her when he decides to wait it out a bit longer.  Just in case.

On Saturday, Harry receives an email:

 

> _If you’re still up for it, I’d be willing to give it another try.  I want to meet again in person though.  I need to make sure the air’s cleared and all that shit.  Same time, same place?_

 

Harry can’t type out a response fast enough.

 

## ***

 

Zayn’s listening, and it’s a complete 180 from the last time they met up at this coffee shop, exactly one week ago.  The raven-haired boy quirks his head to the side, fingers itching like he needs a cigarette even though he’s just had one.  (Harry spied him sneaking in a quick one before he entered the coffee shop…only ten minutes late this time.)

“Here, I’ll show you what I’m talking about,” Harry says finally.  “I’ve done a mock-up of chapter three with those changes I was talking about last time.  Slide on over.”

Zayn does, inching his chair over until Harry’s met with an all-too-familiar scent:  tobacco, aloe, and spicy peppermint.  He wants to stop, breathe it in, savour it a while, but then he remembers he has a job to do (that doesn’t involve creepily sniffing his ex). 

He opens the revised chapter and explains how he’s moved this paragraph here and that one there, spliced a long narrative and re-homed it elsewhere.  Zayn follows every word, rests his chin on his hand, his eyes as bright as a tiger’s.  It’s difficult for Harry to keep his train of thought each time he makes the mistake of looking at the other boy.  Heck, it’s difficult even breathing normally with Zayn so close. 

Harry had almost forgotten how this feeling went, how easily this other boy can drown his senses.  At one time his inexperience called it ‘love.’  Now, he knows better, knows it’s just ‘chemistry’ (albeit chemistry on a pretty heavy dose of steroids).

Still, he’s never had this feeling when he’s with Garrett.  He’s never had it with anyone but Zayn, and if he’s honest, it gnaws on him…just a little.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“You stopped talking.”  Zayn’s staring at him expectantly, and Harry tries to pull himself together. 

“Just a little distracted, I guess,” he offers as an excuse.  He quickly searches for his place again in the document even though everything appears jumbled-up now, just like his thoughts.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

Harry figures there’s no sense in denying it, that Zayn could probably see through him even if he tried.  He takes a steadying breath and forces himself to make eye contact with the boy beside him.  “Yes.  It’s just…weird seeing you in person after all this time, being this close.” 

He combs a nervous hand through his hair and remembers how it used to be longer when they were together.  His follicles almost tingle as Harry thinks about the way Zayn would curl his long fingers in it, gripping on tightly as he—

No, Harry can’t think about things like that.  He absolutely can _not_ think about things like that.

“It’s weird for me, too,” Zayn admits.  His eyelashes flutter tremulously, and Harry can't understand how someone can appear so hard and yet so delicate all at once.  Zayn sips his chai slowly, and when he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper. 

“You know you never asked me what it felt like.”

“What what felt like?” Harry asks unsurely.  There’s that expression on Zayn’s face, and Harry’s worried he’s going to close off again like he’s always done in the past when something’s troubling him.

He doesn’t—though Harry almost wishes he had.

“Being stood up…on me wedding day.  Standing there with everyone staring at me, pitying me like the sad bastard I was.”  Zayn shakes his head as if to shake the memories away.  “It was a fucking shitshow, that.”

For the first time, Harry feels ashamed.  Before he felt guilty, scared, and confused, but now it’s shame that overshadows all of it.  He doesn’t know what to say because nothing will change what he did (or how callously he did it).  No apology can make it better, but he supposes he’s got to start somewhere; otherwise, they’re not going to be able to move on from this.

He clears his throat.  “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well it sucked alright,” Zayn acknowledges, voice catching.  “I was gutted, felt like the world’s biggest idiot, but more than that…I couldn’t believe you’d pull something like that.  Thought I knew you better.”

Harry’s surprised as emotions spill out from the boy who never allowed anyone—even Harry—to dive much below the surface.  And suddenly Harry gets it.  He feels the other boy’s pain, but simultaneously, he also realises what broke them apart in the first place.

Harry hadn’t been sure of Zayn.  He hadn’t been sure of their relationship.  And yeah, part of that was because they progressed too quickly, a hurricane rather than a slow-burning flame, but that didn’t explain everything.

He remembers an intensity of feelings but not a lot of words.  He recalls drunken laughter with mates, sunny days and shy smiles, shit weed and tattoo parlours, cold sheets and burning touches.  Harry recalls a fantasy where real life took a backseat, where all that mattered was that they were young and _alive._

At some point, Harry got scared.  He needed something he could hold on to, something he could be sure of.  But the more he dug for reassurance, the more Zayn clammed up.

And the more they fucked.

Maybe Zayn saved his words for his books when he should have spoken them aloud.  Maybe Harry should have ended it better instead of running away like a coward.

Then again, maybe he should just stop dwelling on the past.

“I’m sorry, Zayn.  I’m so bloody sorry.”

“Don’t want your apologies, mate,” Zayn clips back with that proud, stubborn edge of his.  “Never needed them before and don’t need ‘em now.”  He pauses, licks his lips, and Harry waits patiently for him to continue.  “It’s just…I wanted to make sure you got it, you know.  I mean, I’ll do my best to put the personal issues aside for the good of the book, but I wanted to let you know how I felt…how I _still_ feel.”

Harry’s not certain how to respond to that, but luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“Alright, Haz,” Zayn declares, and Harry can’t help the warm feeling he gets inside as Zayn uses the familiar nickname from a lifetime ago.  “Show me those edits on page twenty-six again.  I think I have some ideas….”

 

## ***

 

Mondays soon become Mondays and Thursdays.  They meet at the little coffee shop on the corner like clockwork.  It gets to be that Harry counts the days until he’ll see Zayn again, until they can discuss the next chapter in the book, even though he tries not to.  (He tries _really_ hard not to.)   Still, he can’t help waking up with a smile on days when he’s going to see Zayn; he can’t stall the skip in his step as he makes the familiar trek from his office to the coffee shop twice weekly. 

Louis calls it emotional infidelity, but he’s talking rubbish (as usual).  Harry would never dream of cheating on Garrett.  He’s _happy_ with Garrett.  He’s just in love with a piece of fiction—not the author who wrote it.

And if the highlight of Harry’s week happens to be discussing said fiction with said author, then there’s bugger-all wrong with that.

 

## ***

 

They’re deep in debate, diligently combing through Harry’s suggested edits for chapter thirteen, when Harry realises they’re not alone. 

It’s Garrett.  He’s stood a few feet away from their table in the coffee shop, peering over Zayn’s shoulder, and smiling down at them. 

“Sorry,” Garrett says sheepishly as Zayn notices the observer and visibly starts.  “Didn’t want to interrupt the creative process at work.  You guys looked like you were really cruising along there.” 

Harry just sits there dumbly until he realises that he should say something.  “Oh, yeah.  Um, Garrett this is Zayn, my author,” he swiftly introduces, “and Zayn, this is Garrett.  My boyfriend.”

There’s an inscrutable look in Zayn’s impenetrable eyes.  If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it.  “Nice to meet you, Garrett,” Zayn offers, shaking the other man’s hand.

“Likewise,” Garrett returns warmly before turning to Harry.  “Hon, we’ve got a show to get to tonight—I almost forgot about it myself since I bought the tickets months ago.  You weren’t answering your phone so I called your work, and they said you’d be here,” he explains.  “Sorry to barge in, but I figured I’d stop by since this place is on my way home from the office anyway.”

“Bloody hell—I completely forgot,” Harry apologises, checking his neglected phone.  He’s set it to ‘mute,’ and mentally kicks himself.  “We were just wrapping up anyway.”  He starts saving his work and closing out windows as fast as he can.

But it isn’t fast enough, apparently, because the next words out of Garrett’s mouth chill Harry to the core:  

“Hey, Zayn…we’ll have to go out for dinner or drinks sometime.”  It’s an afterthought really, a spur-of-the-moment gesture, but it’s enough to make Harry’s skin crawl.

Zayn appears fidgety, too.  “Uh, wouldn’t want to put you out, like—especially ‘cause I’m just, you know, Harry’s _‘author’_ or whatever.”  He looks directly at Harry as he speaks, something like accusation in his eyes.

“Nonsense,” Garrett tuts back.  “Harry’s told me all about you so I know you’re more than just—are you alright?”  Garrett stops mid-sentence as Zayn goes into a coughing fit, face turning red as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Sorry,” Zayn manages after a minute, eyes still watery.  “What were you saying?”

Garrett peers down at his boyfriend, and Harry pretends he doesn’t see the question mark in his eyes.  Garrett shrugs, then turns back to Zayn.  “Oh, I was just about to say that Harry’s told me you two were college friends.”

“Oh,” Zayn says, relief spilling out from every pore.  “Oh, yeah.  That was us.  Both English nerds at uni, we were.  Right, Haz?”

“Right,” Harry agrees, nodding furiously while getting to his feet and scrambling to get his laptop and notes back in the case.  “See you later, Zayn.  Email me with those revisions whenever you get a chance and—”

“How about Friday?” Garrett interrupts, and Harry doesn’t get it at first.

But then he does. 

Zayn gets it, too, eyes widening a little as he looks to Harry for help.  “Um....”

“Please say you can make it,” Garrett swoops in before either of them can say anything.  “I’m sure Harry would be _extremely_ disappointed if you couldn’t.” 

Harry forces a smile, tries not to look like he’d rather walk on a bed of nails than have dinner with these two men at the same time.

“See?” Garrett claims, declaring victory as he rubs his boyfriend’s back.  “We’ll plan on dinner.  My treat, of course.”

“Thank you for the invitation and everything, but…um, well, the thing is….”  Zayn’s running out of excuses, and Harry prepares himself for the worst.  Garrett doesn’t give up on things easily, and right now, he’s going at Zayn with the same energy he’d use to sway an unsympathetic jury. 

“Say you’ll join us.”

Zayn smiles tightly, then looks at Harry with only half-concealed resentment.  “Alright, yeah,” he finally acquiesces.  “Friday, right?”

Garrett winks and gives him a thumbs up.  “Great!  Harry’ll text you the details.  Nice meeting you again, Zayn.”

Zayn mumbles back a response, and then Harry’s dragging Garrett out of the coffee shop. Garrett doesn’t belong there anyway.

(No, Harry shouldn’t be thinking that.  He shouldn’t be bloody thinking that at all.)

 

## ***

 

Harry is sure there are worse things than having a nice, quiet dinner with your current boyfriend and former fiancé, but he can’t name any offhand. 

To make matters worse, Garrett doesn’t understand why Harry’s a mess of nerves leading up to the dreaded reservation (which, admittedly, isn’t the man’s fault since Harry hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about Zayn’s and his past relationship).  Still, as Harry freshens up after work, Garrett is making him downright anxious, constantly reminding him of the time at regular intervals.  Harry’s not going to kill himself to get ready though.  After all, Zayn’s never been early to anything in his life. 

Except today apparently.

Zayn’s sat in the waiting area of the upscale Manhattan restaurant looking like he walked straight off the pages of Italian Vogue, and Harry wants to stab himself in the eye with the nearest fork.

“Sorry, we’re late; it was my fault,” Harry apologises because Garrett’s looking at him, and it was.  Harry’s fault, that is.

“No worries, mate,” Zayn assures him, nodding at them both.  “This place looks nice.”

“You should’ve had them seat you,” Garrett comments, snapping his fingers at the hostess to get her attention.  (Harry lowkey hates when he does things like that.)

“Didn’t know what name it was under,” Zayn explains awkwardly, and Harry wonders if this is going to be a sign of events to come. 

Unfortunately, it is.

It’s like every topic Garrett brings up is problematic, from how they met to their reaction when they discovered Harry had been assigned to edit Zayn’s book.  Fortunately, Zayn is able to put his writer’s imagination to good use, spinning tales based on half-truths that only Harry can see through. 

Harry should really be grateful.  He should thank his lucky stars that Zayn’s playing along, but it just makes him feel worse somehow because Zayn shouldn’t have to do this.  And Harry never technically asked Zayn to cover for him, but he’s doing it anyway.  He’s loyal to a fault.  Zayn wouldn’t rat out Harry even if he deserved it, even if he wanted to get back at him.

It’s just how he is.

Forty-five minutes in and Harry’s not sure how much more he can take.  He’s shovelling food into his mouth at sonic speeds, figuring it will either get them out of there faster or he’ll start chundering, and they’ll have to leave early.  (Really, it’s a win-win situation.)

That’s when Garrett decides to bring up problematic topic number fifty-seven:

“I can’t get over the fact that you both ended up in New York,” he says casually, cutting into his sirloin.  “I’m surprised you never met up before you started working together—since you were friends and everything back in England, I mean.”

Zayn stares pensively at his plate, and it’s the first time Harry’s genuinely worried that the other boy’s going to spill everything.

But he doesn’t, and really, Harry should have more faith in him.

Zayn twirls his fork around an asparagus.  “Yeah, well, we lost touch; you know how it is.”

“Yeah, sure do,” Garrett answers after he finishes chewing.  It’s quiet for a couple of minutes after that as they eat, and honestly, Harry couldn’t be more delighted.  It doesn’t last forever, however.

“So how did you two meet?” Zayn inquires innocently, and Harry can’t think of a topic he’d like to discuss less at the moment.

“At a bar,” Garrett grins, raising his glass towards Harry.  “I told him I was an environmental lawyer, and he spent the rest of the night telling me how I ought to do my job.”

Zayn snorts.  “Bet he was right pissed, mate.  He always gets like that when he’s had too much to drink; thinks he knows everything, he does.”

“Yeah, it was pretty annoying at first,” Garrett acknowledges.

Harry rolls his eyes.  “You two are so full of it.”

“No, it’s true, hon,” Garrett maintains, winking at his boyfriend beside him.  “Why do you think I never let you have more than a couple?”

Harry doesn’t answer.  He’s proper narked with both of them right now.

“Aww Haz,” Zayn says with a chuckle, “I think it’s cute.  I think it’s one of the things I love most about you.”  He pales immediately after, eyes widening a little as he realises the clanger he’s just dropped. 

Harry changes the subject before Zayn starts spluttering out some excuse that’ll just make things worse.  Amazingly, Garrett doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by Zayn’s admission.  It’s like he didn’t even hear what the man said, didn’t see the fondness lurking behind it.

But Harry did. 

Garrett gets a call towards the end of dinner.  He pulls a face as he checks the number.  “I’m so sorry, but I need to take this.  I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he promises, placing a peck on the top of his boyfriend’s head before leaving the table.

“He seems nice,” Zayn muses as they both watch the lawyer disappear out the front door, phone glued to his ear.  “A little old, perhaps, but….”

Harry takes the bait.  “But _what,_ Zayn?”

“Nothing, it’s just that”—he quirks his lips—“he’s, like, _older_ than you.”

Harry rolls his eyes.  “So are you.”

“By a year, Haz, and we’re not talking about me.”

“He’s like 30.  Stop being so judgy.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow and Harry caves.  “Fine,” he huffs.  “Garrett’s 34—35 in July.  Happy?”

“Nah, just reckoned he was older—you know, the greying hair and all.”

“I like it,” Harry insists stubbornly.  He feels like he’s got to defend his basically textbook-perfect boyfriend to Zayn which is absolutely ridiculous.  “My mum says he looks like a younger George Clooney.”

Zayn’s lips curl up at one end.  “Then why doesn’t she date him?” he cracks.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Harry reprimands, but he can’t help but smile, too, as he stares across the table at his ex-fiancé.  Too soon, Zayn’s mouth relaxes and his hazel eyes lose some of their lustre.  “What is it?”

Zayn tugs on his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger.  “Nothing, Haz.  Nothing’s the matter.”  He won’t meet Harry’s gaze now, and it bothers Harry…more than it should probably.

“Look, I’m really sorry for dragging you into all this.”

Zayn’s head shoots up then.  “No worries,” he declares with a fervour that makes Harry believe him this time.  “Honest—it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was gonna be.  Not even close.”

Harry knows he should have told Garrett about Zayn—about their _full_ history together—but he just couldn’t.  At this point, it would just seem like he was hiding something, and he wasn’t.  (He _isn’t._ )  “Well, still.  It couldn’t have been easy—this dinner, I mean.”

Zayn hums.  “You know what _has_ been easy?” he asks, and Harry looks up.  “Working with you,” he answers before Harry can say a word.  He runs a finger along the edge of his glass as he continues, voice soft and contemplative.  “Everything’s always been easy with you, Haz.  Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened—if we gave it a go, I mean.”

“Too late to find out now,” Harry swallows, looking away.

“Yeah, seems like I’m always too late with things.”

“What do you mean?”

Zayn shrugs.  “Sod-all probably.  It’s just…I maybe should have told you what you meant to me—before, like.”  He licks his lips.  “Guess I just figured you already knew.”

They’re quiet for a long time as Zayn’s words, full of a naked candidness that neither can ignore, sink in fully.  Harry’s not sure why, but he almost feels the need to console Zayn as Louis did that day three years ago in Chester.  “You asked me to marry you,” Harry reminds him gently.  “That counts for something.”

Zayn huffs out a frustrated sigh.  “Yeah, but it wasn’t the right time, and let’s face it—the whole proposal was arse-over-tit anyway.”

Harry doesn’t argue with that.  He remembers the impromptu decision, the cigar band ring, and the way they celebrated afterwards back at Zayn’s flat, making love until dawn.

Making love _past_ dawn.

“It’s strange how it all worked out—isn’t it?” Zayn wonders aloud.  “Us meeting again like this, working together….”

“Stranger than fiction.”

Zayn gives him a lopsided smile.  “Yeah, straight up.” 

Harry nods, not trusting himself to speak.  A minute later, Harry’s boyfriend returns to the table, and the conversation soon turns to Garrett’s new case.  Harry pays attention less than usual.

That night as Harry lays his head on his pillow, Garrett reading a law journal beside him, he can’t stop thinking about what Zayn said.  Eventually, he slips into a fretful slumber, the stain of ‘what-if’ pressed into the back pages of his consciousness.

 

## ***

 

Harry polishes Zayn’s novel as he would a gemstone, making tiny delicate cuts to showcase the natural beauty within.  He buffs out the rough edges until it sparkles, until its multifaceted radiance is revealed.

When it’s sent over for a final copyedit, Harry helps with that, too.  He oversees the process so that no one mucks up a single syllable.  He follows the manuscript through art direction even though he’s been given a new assignment.  He ensures Zayn’s happy with the cover art and the typeface that’s been chosen.  He ensures the original integrity of the work shines through from manuscript to proof to advance reading copy.

Vivian can see that Harry’s personally invested with this novel so she doesn’t bother him too much, even lets him act as coordinating editor.  He’s putting in extra hours after all.  In any case, she’s got nothing to complain about since Zayn’s book is going to be ready ahead of schedule.  They were planning a Fall release, but they’ll be able to move it up to early August now, hitting the late summer holiday crowd while avoiding the inundated Christmas market. 

Vivian’s already assigned Zayn a publicist, and Harry’s been aware of the buzz around the book for weeks.  That’s why he isn’t surprised when Zayn texts him about the launch event.  He glances at Zayn’s final text while he’s at dinner with Garrett, and it makes him feel funny inside:

 

> _Zayn:  Hope you’ll be there! Couldn’t have done this without you :) x_

 

Garrett pauses mid-bite as Harry pockets his phone.  His boyfriend asks if something’s wrong, and Harry’s at a loss for words.  He’s suddenly incredibly sad—almost tragically so—and he can’t figure out why.

Or maybe he doesn’t want to. 

 

## ***

 

“Okay, think we’re all set then!” Kayla announces as she examines a list on her tablet.  “The last batch of books arrived, and they’re going to be set up on either side of the table where you’ll be doing the signing.”

“This table?” Zayn asks his publicist, and Harry can see he’s starting to get nervous.  It’s a big deal, a launch _and_ signing at one of the largest book retailers in the city.

“Yep,” Kayla replies with a pop.  She motions for them to follow, blonde ponytail swishing back and forth, as she points out various areas of the bookstore.  “This is where the queue will start, and this is where the promotional material will go,” she informs them, stopping to take something out of a smaller box.  “By the way, I had the art department redo the bookmarks; these are much more eye-catching—don’t you think?” she inquires, shoving one in Zayn’s face so that he almost goes cross-eyed trying to get as good look at it.

He doesn’t have time to answer though as she swiftly moves on to another area of the bookstore. “This is where you’ll do the book reading.  I’ve got the selections marked in my book as well—just in case.”  She winks at Zayn.  “Can’t be too prepared!”

“Right,” Harry chirrups back.

“Let’s see,” the chipper publicist continues, “I just covered the last few necessary details with the store manager so we’re good there.  Also, we should get a last big push from social media—everyone’s buzzing about this after the press kit was sent out.  This launch should be _huge_!”

“That’s, uh, great,” Zayn manages, eying Harry apprehensively.

“It’s going to be fun,” Harry assures him, “just think about it as a way to connect with your fans.”

Zayn’s not convinced.  “Book’s only been out since Tuesday, Haz, so I highly doubt I have any ‘fans’ yet.”

“I’m a fan,” Harry says playfully.

“Doesn’t count,” Zayn grunts.  “You’re my line editor.”

The blonde publicist raises an eyebrow.  “I don’t mean to be rude, but why exactly are you here then?”

It’s a good question.  Harry thought he was just going to attend the event, show some support for Zayn and the publishing house, but Zayn asked him to come two hours early and has latched on to him ever since.  It’s a little disconcerting that the author wanted Harry by his side on his big day, but Harry’s just going with it. 

He’s not overthinking it.  Not at all.

But apparently, Kayla is.

“For moral support,” Zayn answers her.

“Well be careful because I just might find a job for you,” Kayla cracks.  Her attention is diverted directly after though.  “No, not there!” she shouts to a couple of her assistants carrying an easel across the store.  “I asked you to put that one closer to the front door!”  They nod and nearly drop the thing in their hurry to change directions.  Kayla shakes her head and mutters under her breath.  “ _Honestly_.”

Harry glances at Zayn, and they share an amused look. 

“Anything else I need to do?” Zayn speaks up when she’s no longer distracted.

“Not really.  I’ve basically got it covered—as I always do.  If I were you, I’d read through the selected passages again to make sure you’re ready for game time, but that’s about it.”  She smiles prettily and puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.  (Harry has a strange urge to knock it off.)  “Just bring your pretty face, your best reading voice, and your favourite pens.  I’ll cover the rest.”

“Pens?” Zayn asks, stricken.

Kayla gives him a strange look.  “Yes, of course.  Just like I said in the email….” Her voice trails off, and she pales.  “You’ve forgotten to bring the pens, haven’t you?”

Zayn nods guiltily.  “Yeah, but I mean I’m sure I can find some kind of pen around here?”

“It’s fine; don’t worry,” Kayla tries to say cheerily.  (She doesn’t quite pull it off.)  “I’ll just find someone who isn’t busy to—”

“I’m on it,” Harry volunteers.  “I’ll leave in a minute here and get a pack of those fine point Sharpies.  I’ve heard they work best.”

“Fantastic,” Kayla sighs.  “You’re a lifesaver, Mr. Line Editor.”

Zayn’s wearing a look of pure gratitude.  Harry can’t help but bask in the fact that he can be useful to Zayn on his big day, however small a contribution he’s making.  It gives him butterflies—the nice kind.

“Zayn,” Kayla begins, reading something from her screen, “I got an email from Vivian asking you to ‘tone down’ that accent of yours for the reading today.  Personally, I think it’s sexy, but I’m sure the boss wants to make sure every word of that fabulous book is understood.” 

She lays her hand on Zayn’s arm, and Harry can’t decide what’s turning him off more—the fact that she thinks Zayn’s accent is ‘sexy’ or the fact that she can’t seem to stop touching him.

_Whatever._

“Think you can do that?” Kayla asks.

“Okay,” Zayn says, furrowing his brow, nerves apparently returning in full force now that he’s remembered the book reading component.  Harry wishes he’d just let loose, trust himself and his talent a little.  “Yeah, like, I _think_ I can do that.”  Zayn nods like he’s trying to convince himself.  “Yeah, yeah.  I can definitely do that.”

Harry waggles his eyebrows.  “Yes, but can you do it on a cold, rainy night in Stoke?” he quips, and Zayn guffaws into his hand.  Soon they both erupt into a fit of schoolboy giggles, and Kayla’s just looking back and forth between them like they’re mad.  (They probably are.)

“I’m not even going to ask.”  She shakes her head, then starts off towards a group of her assistants, turning around to add, “and don’t even think about forgetting the pens, Mr. Line Editor, or you’re toast!”

 

## ***

 

They decide to get drinks at a trendy lounge afterwards to celebrate the tremendously successful event.  It’s primarily just the publicity team, other representatives from the publishing company, and a few mates Zayn’s made since he’s been in town—mostly fellow writers from author circles.  Vivian’s there, too.  She came with the taxi that brought the last few boxes of books Kayla requested when the bookstore sold-out of all the copies they’d brought beforehand.

Needless to say, everyone’s in a good mood.  Especially Vivian. 

The night’s winding down, and as the last group leaves, Harry suddenly realises it’s just Zayn and him remaining.  They’re sat next to each other, weirdly close perhaps now that everyone else has left.

“Didn’t realise it was so late,” Harry states because it’s true.  He goes to stand up, but Zayn stops him.

“Don’t leave…not yet,” the other boy urges.  “Celebrate with me a little longer, yeah?”

And Harry should leave but somehow he can’t say no to Zayn—not to his face anyway.  “Alright.  Just one more drink though, yeah?”

Zayn grins, looks as delighted as Harry’s ever seen him, but Harry decides not to think too deeply about that.  They chat for a few more minutes about the event, about the book, about the meaning of life, about everything and nothing.  

After a while, Harry glances down and notices that Zayn still hasn’t touched his drink.  “You gonna drink that?” Harry asks finally because he really should be going now.  He told Garrett he’d be out late, even invited him to the after-party (an invitation which the busy lawyer declined), but it’s close to midnight now.

And Harry knows that all fairy-tales end at midnight.  (Even this once.)

Zayn looks at his glass.  “Yeah, why?”

“Because all the ice has melted, mate, and I’ve a feeling you’ve no intention of drinking it.”

“Maybe so,” he confesses quietly, and Harry has to lean closer just to hear him over the din of the lounge.  “Maybe I hoped you’d never leave if I didn’t finish it.”

“ _Zayn_.”

“You look so good tonight, Haz,” Zayn rushes out, and Harry can hardly believe what he’s hearing as Zayn lifts his head, no longer afraid to look him straight in the eye.  He flicks his tongue over his bottom lip.  “So fit.” 

Harry remembers that look—the one Zayn’s giving him right now, the one that sweeps Harry away and causes him to forget everything.  He’s Zayn’s editor, and he shouldn’t even be thinking about some of the things he wants to do to Zayn right now (let alone the things he wants Zayn to do to _him_ ).  It doesn’t help that Harry knows what Zayn feels like under him; knows what he tastes like, _looks_ like when he comes undone.

Vivian would kill him.  She’d absolutely murder Harry if he did something stupid like sleep with an author— _his_ author.

And then there’s also the small fact that Harry’s got a boyfriend because he does.  (Even if he’s having a hard time remembering that as Zayn’s tiger eyes burn into him.)

Zayn clears his throat, takes a step closer again.  “Haz, I—”

“Congratulations on your book, Zayn,” Harry interrupts as he stumbles out of his chair.  He can’t hear this.  Not now.  Not ever.  “I’m happy for you because it’s a beautiful piece of work,” he rasps out, voice thick with unspoken emotions.  “It really is.”

“I don’t give a shit about the book right now, Haz,” Zayn grumbles back, and Harry knows that’s not true.  It can’t be—not after how hard they laboured away to make it perfect, to make it _Zayn’s._  Not after the countless hours Zayn must have spent writing the first drafts before Harry even got his hands on it.

Zayn’s up, too, closing the distance between them until he’s backed Harry into a wall, both literally and figuratively.  He touches Harry’s cheek, caresses it with his fingertips before his hand drifts to Harry’s neck.  “Just want you, Haz,” he murmurs.  He’s so close Harry can smell the familiar cologne mixed with Zayn’s scent, and it’s drawing him in, sending him over the edge.  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted from the day we met.”

Zayn’s gazing into his eyes, and Harry knows _that_ look, too; knows Zayn’s about to kiss him. 

And Harry wants Zayn to kiss him.  He wants it with every fibre of his being which is what makes it even harder to say what he has to say:

“I’ve a boyfriend, Zayn.  I can’t do this to him.”

The protest is soft, barely above a whisper, but it works.  Zayn blinks, steps back.  There’s a dazed, hurt look in his eyes that tells Harry he wasn’t the only one who forgot about Garrett, if only momentarily.

But then Zayn’s expression twists into something bitter and almost ugly—if that’s even remotely possible.  He regards Harry with disgust, as if he’s suddenly repelled by the mere sight of him.  “Yeah, you can’t,” he says, an acidity tainting the normally melodic voice.  “Of course you can’t hurt your boyfriend.”  

“Why are you being like this?”

“Because I was your bloody fiancé, and you didn’t think twice before walking out on me on my wedding day, but you think of _him_ now,” Zayn grunts.  “Of course you do.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Bollocks.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Harry demands, starting to lose his temper.  “Do you expect me to cheat because that’s not me.”

“No,” Zayn says after a beat.

“Then tell me what you expect me to do,” Harry whinges, grasping on to Zayn’s arm.  He wants to make this right.  He needs to make this right somehow.

Zayn shakes him off.  “Listen, I don’t expect nowt from ya,” he spits out, then follows it up with a cold, biting laugh.  “Nothing at all, mate.”

And Harry knows Zayn can be cruel when he wants to be, but there’s a sincerity to his words that cuts deep.  “Zayn—”

“Have a nice life, Harry.” 

Zayn turns on his heel and storms off, and Harry’s left wondering what he should’ve done differently.

(Deep down, he knows the answer is probably ‘everything.’)

 

## ***

 

Harry breaks up with Garrett three days later.  He’s never really been the one to break it off before—unless you count him going ghost on Zayn on their wedding day, of course.  He usually stays until it rots, until it gets so ugly and messy the other person is forced to say something.

There are no clear rules in relationships—not like in grammar.  There are no clear-cut style guides to follow.  It’s something that’s always bothered Harry.

Apparently, there are even fewer guidelines for ending a relationship.

Harry tells Garrett it’s not working, that he’s not really in love with the man.  He says he’s enjoyed their time together, and it’s not just a cliché.  He means it.  They’ve been coasting comfortably since the beginning, and it’s been good.  But neither of them should be content with good.

To his surprise, Garrett gets it.  He smiles sadly, says he always suspected they were merely a delayed stopover and not a final destination.  He says he’d like to remain friends. 

Harry tells him he would very much like to remain friends, too.

 

## ***

 

“Rise and shine, Styles.”

Harry immediately bolts up, blinking his eyes furiously.  He hadn’t actually fallen asleep at his desk, but he was damn close.  He’d been trying to resolve a problem with a sub-plot—or more precisely—carefully word an email to one of his current authors so _she_ would resolve the issue.  Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, trying to finish up some final edits for another author, so he’d nearly drifted off.  “I’m awake—sorry, I was just brainstorming.”

Vivian raises a perfectly-manicured eyebrow.  “You were out cold, Styles.  You don’t need to apologise to me because it’s after eight, and if I were you, I’d be at home with that George Clooney look-alike boyfriend of mine.”

Harry wonders why every middle-aged woman he knows thinks Garrett resembles George Clooney.  He also wonders if he should fess up about his break up.  He figures he might as well before it gets too terribly awkward.  

“We, uh, broke up.” 

Vivian looks down at him with an expression bordering on sympathy, and if she were a character in one of Harry’s manuscripts, he’d slag off the author for not staying true to character.  Heck, he would have believed the editorial director could breathe fire first.  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Harry replies quickly, massaging his temples.  “I actually broke it off so, um, yeah.”  He bites his lip, wonders if he should say more when he’s already said too much already.

“So that’s why you’ve been here so much,” Vivian declares, and Harry doesn’t disagree.  He’s been trying to keep his mind off his personal life, and it’s easiest to do when he’s at the office. 

Vivian purses her lips.  “I mean, the expectation is that this isn’t purely a nine-to-five job, but I would like to keep my talented line editors around for a _little_ while,” she clucks.  “I wouldn’t want you to burn out before I get a few more years work out of you.”  It’s her dry humour again, and Harry can see the sparkle of kindness in her eyes.

“Thanks, boss.  I’ll just finish the email I was going to send, then head out.”

Vivian nods, seems to accept his answer.  “Alright, but go home after that, Styles”

“I will,” Harry promises.

“And I’d call him if I were you,” she adds, adjusting the pearls around her neck.  “It couldn’t hurt.”

Harry’s confused.  She’s only met Garrett once—at some office party months back—but she must have liked him an awful lot if she’s trying to reunite Harry with his ex.  “Cheers much for the advice, but I was the one who broke it off with Garrett, and it was for the best.  _Really_.”

“I wasn’t talking about him—gorgeous though he was,” she adds, almost to herself.  “I thought you’d figured it out, Styles, but never mind.  Apparently, you haven’t connected the dots yet.”

“What dots?”

Vivian peers down at him knowingly.  “The dots that lead to our very own Zayn Malik, bestselling author and—if rumours around here are to be believed—your former fiancé.”

Harry swallows, realising he’s been found out.  “I was, uh, going to tell you, I promise, but—”

“When?” Vivian cuts him off.  “After he’s released his fifth book with us?” she asks sarcastically.  “Doesn’t matter.  Things couldn’t have gone any better with the release and sales have been through the roof.”

Harry exhales the breath he didn’t even know he was holding.  “I just want you to know that we kept everything professional throughout the editing process,” he assures her.

“Well, since the book has been out for months and you’re apparently horrifyingly single, I would suggest you give him a call.”

Harry looks glumly down at his desk.  “He doesn’t want to hear from me.”

“For someone who’s supposedly done a thorough job on editing, you missed a heck of a lot in that manuscript.”  She crosses her arms over her chest, and Harry expects the fire-breathing to follow at any moment.  “Zayn Malik is in love with you, Styles.  It’s on every page of that marvellous book.  Go re-read it and tell me if I’m wrong,” she challenges, wagging her finger down at him.  “And _go home_.”

Harry nods weakly as she departs.  He finishes off the email, then leaves the nearly-deserted building.  On the way home to his empty flat, he stops by a chain bookseller.  He needs a clean, fresh look at the book, something that can only be achieved by purchasing a copy for himself. 

It’s easy to locate, the familiar cerulean and gold hardcover displayed prominently in the window, on a front table, and along the bestseller wall.  He picks up a copy and admires the bold jacket design, thumbs across the artsy, uncut edges.  _A Shining Distraction_ by Zayn J. Malik, he reads, before opening the book to the first page:

 

> _Some days, Kahil wishes he never met Henry.  He thinks about what it would be like not to feel that heaviness, the weight he once thought was his anchor.  Now, he knows the heaviness which made his heart feel so full was actually sinking him, pulling him deeper into the abyss._
> 
> _Maybe he knew it back then.  Even if he did, he didn’t care.  He still doesn’t._
> 
> _Some days, Kahil wishes he could forget Henry.  He wishes he could forget the looks, the hushed conversations, the secret rendezvous.  Kahil wants to erase it all or, at least, tuck it back into the recesses of his mind, back to a place where it doesn’t hurt so Goddamn much._
> 
> _Most days, however, Kahil wishes Henry was still there.  He knows he shouldn’t, knows he’s foolish to want something that’s never going to be.  The thing between Henry and him—it never should’ve gone that far in the first place._
> 
> _But it did, and he wants it back._ All _of it._

 

Harry doesn’t turn the page.  He knows what follows, knows it like the back of his hand.  Harry recalls vividly the inner struggles and self-doubt Kahil goes through; the protagonist’s obsession with Henry even after he disappears without a word; his need for closure and the quiet, gutting realisation by the end that he’ll never achieve it, not fully.

As he heads to the till to make his purchase, Zayn’s novel carefully tucked under his arm, Harry can’t help but feel like an idiot.  Vivian was right; it’s all so apparent that Zayn was, in part, writing about him—even down to the thinly-disguised “Henry” replacing his own name.  It does his head in that he didn’t make the connection before.  Or maybe he did but refused to recognise what was staring him straight in the face all along.

He wonders how long he’s been lying to himself.

 

## ***

 

“The ending’s shit,” Harry proclaims the moment Zayn opens the door to his building.  It’s about time, too, Harry having been leaning on the brass button reading “Z. Malik” for a good five minutes now. 

Zayn’s wearing a particularly sour expression as he stares wordlessly at Harry.  There’s a steady beat of rain behind them, almost like a backdrop to a pivotal scene.  Harry waits patiently, protected from the dismal weather by an overhanging eave above the building’s entrance.

Eventually, a couple squeezes by them, shooting a weird look in their direction as they pass.  (Harry returns it.)  The pair sprint towards a waiting cab, and Harry waves when the woman turns around.  He’s just trying to be polite, but she nearly loses a shoe in her haste to get inside the yellow cab.

He’ll never understand New Yorkers.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Zayn hisses against the sound of the rain.  The other boy is still blocking the doorway with his stupidly-fit body, clad only in a white shirt and black joggers.  He checks the street left and right as if to verify Harry’s alone. 

(Of course Harry’s alone.  He has no life.  He works twenty-four-bloody-seven and takes evening kips at his desk for crying out loud.) 

“Had to tell you something.”

Zayn wrinkles his nose as he peers down at him from the stoop.  “You pissed or summat?”

“That’s hardly relevant,” Harry objects because _if_ he stopped at a bar on the way to buck up additional courage, well…that’s nobody’s business but his own.  (And maybe the burly bartender who cut him off shortly after he’d built that pyramid from all his leftover cherries.  He literally only needed one more to top it off, the _pièce de résistance_ , but so it goes.)

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “You’re fucking smashed, aren’t you?”

Harry considers the question as Zayn sways back and forth in the doorway.  He blinks to try to get the other man in focus, but Zayn won’t quit weaving, and it’s making Harry’s head hurt, and oh.  He steadies himself with one arm.  “Yeah, might be actually.  Just a wee bit.” 

Zayn snorts.  “Great.  Just what I fucking needed today.”  He runs a hand through his dark hair, and Harry’s almost mesmerised by how soft it looks as it falls back against his forehead.  “So was there a particular reason I’ve been graced with the presence of a tight Harry Styles or did you just decide to make random house calls on this lovely New York City afternoon?”

It takes Harry a minute to get Zayn’s words all sorted in his head, but then he realises it’s the cue he’s been waiting for.  “Yeah, had to tell you in person,” he says as coherently as he can because that last drink is starting to kick in like…a thing that kicks in.  “I, um, don’t like the ending to your book.  Hate it actually.” 

Zayn scowls.  “Little late for that, don’t you think?  It’s already been published, mate.”

“Doesn’t matter.  It’s still rubbish.” 

“What do you suppose I should do about it then?” Zayn demands, tipping his chin up defiantly.

It’s a good question—one that Harry doesn’t have an immediate answer to.  He can’t think anymore.  He can’t feel anything, not even his rain-soaked clothing.  The only thing left inside of him is an urge—no _need_ —to tell Zayn he got it all wrong.  He has no bloody clue how Zayn’s going to fix the ending now; he just knows that it needs to be fixed.  Kahil can’t go on thinking that Henry doesn’t love him _when he_ _does, Goddammit_.  Henry was ridiculously stupid for deserting Kahil.  He was a fool, and a bloody coward, and—

A roll of thunder tears through the dusk and Zayn sighs.  “Come in,” he invites begrudgingly.  He turns on his heel, leaving the door open for Harry to grab.

Harry goes to follow, catches the toe of his boot on the edge of the step, and falls flat on his face.

 

## ***

 

When Harry wakes up, he’s about ninety-three percent sure he’s dying.  And if the pain he feels throbbing behind his eyeballs _isn’t_ a side effect of dying, then he gives.

But it gets worse once he’s fully conscious.  He’s clever, is the thing, and he can spot when something’s off, when he’s in the wrong bed in the wrong bedroom, for instance.

Like right now.

“Have a nice kip, Sleeping Beauty?” Zayn asks, and Harry spots him standing by the window, about to adjust the blinds.  He looks soft and radiant, framed in warm golden sunshine, and Harry’s about ninety-nine percent certain that whoever came up with the phrase “a sight for sore eyes” was talking about this exact image. 

“Well?” Zayn prompts.

Harry blinks a few times, rubs his forehead, and tries to remember if he slept well.  He tries to remember much of anything.  “Think so,” he replies guardedly.  “Feel like someone kept waking me up every hour though.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.  I figured there was a chance you might have a concussion after that fall.”

“Fall?”

Zayn looks at him funny.  “Yeah, you conked out on my doorstep after going on about my novel and how you thought it was shite.”

Harry sits up slowly and shakes his head.  (He regrets it instantly as he feels what’s left of his brains rattle around.)  “Nah, I said I didn’t like the ending, Zayn.”

Zayn cocks a brow and folds his arms tightly over his chest.  It makes his collar dip lower, revealing a host of new tattoos that Harry wishes he could study up close.  “So you _do_ remember then?”

“Yeah.”  Harry owes Zayn an explanation; he knows he does.  He just doesn’t necessarily owe him an explanation at this particular second.  “I’ve, uh, probably trespassed on your time enough,” he says feebly.  “Thanks for uh….”

“It’s alright, Harry,” Zayn replies tiredly.  “Just…like I said before, I think it’s better if we keep our distance, yeah?  I mean, like, the book’s finished, and there’s really no reason for us to see each other at this point, is there?”

Harry swallows hard.  He can’t look at Zayn, can’t face the detachedness in the other boy’s eyes.  “Yeah.  Yeah, of course.”

He leaves without another word.

 

## ***

 

(Two Months Later)

 

 

> _Louis:  finished zayn’s book_
> 
> _Louis:  you were right…you ARE a dumbass_
> 
> _Louis:  ring me if you need summat_
> 
> _Louis:  love you bro_

 

## ***

 

Zayn’s promotional tour is nearing its end.  Harry has followed it closely despite his workload.  He’s read or recorded every single interview because, apparently, he enjoys torturing himself.

Every so often, he daydreams about calling in when Zayn’s on a radio show and confessing, on air, that he’s the boy who broke Zayn’s heart (and his own).  He imagines a dramatic, tear-felt scene where he pleads for Zayn’s forgiveness on bended knees and Zayn grants it. 

Then he remembers Vivian, and his job, and Zayn’s face the last time they saw each other, and the fact that things like that don’t happen in real life.   

It’s ridiculous, really—thinking they’ll get a happy ending in real life when they couldn’t even manage one in fiction.  Bloody ridiculous.

 

## ***

 

The last person Harry expects to see at the year-end celebration party is Zayn J. Malik, New York Times Bestselling Author. 

It should have occurred to him that Zayn was going to be there.  It might have if he hadn’t buried himself in work these past few weeks.  Of course Zayn was there.  All the authors were invited, and there’s no way Vivian would pass up the opportunity to lay more accolades on the House’s newest and brightest asset.  There were already talks of an advance for Zayn’s next book.

 _Zayn’s next book._   The thought alone makes him beeline for the bar.  Harry knocks back two cocktails and starts a third before he even allows himself to think about that topic again. 

Vivian will no doubt expect Harry to edit Zayn’s follow-up, not wanting to jinx a winning combination.  Harry can’t imagine how he’ll ever work up the nerve to tell her he can’t go through that process again.  Maybe he won’t have to though.  Maybe Zayn will request a different editor, and Vivian will sympathise because she knows about their past.  Maybe there won’t even be a second book.

And maybe Zayn isn’t sat at the bar two stools down from him.

The group that was chatting between them just departed, leaving a rather unfortunate gap.  Harry considers legging it until he realises he’s been spotted.

Zayn regards him critically before his gaze lowers to the trio of cherries on Harry’s napkin.  “Why don’t you just ask the bartender to leave the cherries off if you don’t like them.”

“I do like them,” Harry insists, and Zayn raises an eyebrow.  “I mean, I like a hint of the maraschino flavour, just not the cherry itself.”

“You’ve got problems with commitment, you do,” Zayn observes drily, tipping his beer to get the last dregs of the amber liquid.  Harry can’t help but stare, feel the twinge in his pants as he watches Zayn’s throat bob seductively, spellbindingly, as he swallows down every last drop.

Harry tugs at his collar, absently wondering how it suddenly got so warm in here.  “I don’t follow you, mate.”

Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  “You want to decide whether you fuck with them cherries or not,” he tells Harry, accent thicker now.  He shakes his head.  “It’s no good leaving them half-used-up and all pathetic, like.  It’s a fucking tragedy, is what it is.”

Harry clears his throat nervously.  “Are we still talking about cherries?”

Zayn doesn’t reply to that, just gets to his feet.  He’s way steadier than Harry expected as he claims the seat next to him.  Harry catches the usual spicy peppermint, tobacco, and aloe, but it’s now mixed with expensive cologne—cologne he couldn’t have afforded a year ago.  Cologne Zayn couldn’t have _dreamed_ of when they were together.

“Wanted to ask you something,” Zayn starts carefully, like he’s combing through a final edit.  Harry can feel the tension build in his chest as he waits for Zayn to go on.  “You know that night…when you came to mine and you were rambling about me getting the ending all wrong?”

Harry’s breath hitches.  “Yes.”

“Well I was wondering, like, what you meant by that.”

Harry feels like he’s caught—caught by alcohol, and tiger eyes, and a need to get so many things off his chest.  “I just thought they—Kahil and Henry, I mean—deserved better than what you gave them, that’s all.”

Zayn tilts his head the side like he’s considering what Harry’s just said.  “It was a happy ending as I see it.  Kahil came to terms with his heartbreak, didn’t he?  He grew from it, yeah?”

“That’s not happy; it’s bittersweet—at best,” Harry argues.  “Besides, we don’t even know what happened to Henry.”

“Yeah, we do, mate,” Zayn scoffs, voice laced with bitterness.  “He fucked off to America, became a line editor, and ended up shagging an environmental lawyer.”

Harry doesn’t even have to ask if they’re still talking about the same subject this time.  (They’re not.)  “Just for the record, he’s not shagging the environmental lawyer anymore.”

“No?”  Zayn looks almost hopeful, and it’s enough to make Harry throw all caution to the wind:

“No, he’s not shagging anyone at the moment.  Hasn’t been for a while, in fact.”

Zayn leans closer then, and Harry is sure he’s going to kiss him.  Harry closes his eyes and waits, heart thumping with anticipation.  He thinks about opening his eyes when he still feels nothing after a few more seconds, not even the ghost of lips against his.  But then, hot breath fans the side of his face as soft lips press against his temple.

“Come back to mine?” Zayn murmurs, licking the shell of his ear, and Harry is so gone. 

 

## ***

 

The work party is a distant memory as they take a cab back to Zayn’s.  It’s a cold December night, a wintery greyish slush blanketing the pavements and streets, and Harry wants nothing more than to curl into Zayn’s side to keep warm, to mould their mouths together for the first time in _years_.  He’s buzzed, maybe that’s why a snogging session in the back of a dark cab sounds like an ace idea, maybe that’s why he’s thinking with his libido and not much else.  He keeps his hands to himself, though, because he knows that once he starts, he’ll never stop. 

Zayn, it seems, is on the same page.

Once inside the privacy of Zayn’s flat, however, there are no such restraints and even fewer inhibitions.  A light is switched on and then Harry is being pushed up against the nearest wall with such force that he knows he’ll have bruises along his shoulder blades tomorrow.  (He hopes he has bruises everywhere tomorrow, Zayn-shaped bruises that will stay for days even if Zayn doesn’t.)

Zayn’s body curves into his; he can feel the press of the other boy’s growing erection, the leg dividing his, the firm chest against his own.  He can’t quite tell where Zayn ends and he begins at this point, but he doesn’t care.  Their foreheads knock together, lips now a heartbeat apart, and Harry wonders who’s going to make the first move.

Zayn does, but it’s not in the way he expects.  The dark-haired boy ducks, nipping at Harry’s now-exposed collarbone.  It surprises Harry, makes him throw his head back so hard he sees stars. 

When he regains focus, he’s met with hungry eyes devouring him, raking down Harry’s body like they’ve never done this before.  It’s the opening bars to a grand overture, not some throwaway coda to a relationship that ended three-and-a-half years ago.  This isn’t some drunken hook-up.  It _means_ something.

(It _has_ to mean something.)

Zayn’s at his neck now, sucking on _that spot_ as cold hands deliciously ruck up his shirt.  Harry knows the man types like the devil, has seen him in action on more than one occasion, but the dexterity in Zayn’s normally nimble fingers is absent as he fumbles like a teenager with buttons, zips, and buckles. 

Harry shoves him off, and the other boy stumbles a foot or two backwards, eyes flashing in surprise.   Harry smirks; he can’t help it.  He’s in control now.  He’s the one calling the shots. 

Harry starts stripping:  first, his undone tie, then his belt.  Zayn’s eyes darken, and he palms himself through his trousers as he looks on with rapt interest.

And Harry knows how to put on a show.

He peels off his shirt slowly, shimmies his hips seductively as he discards the superfluous material.  It’s freeing—being wanted—even if it’s just for the night.  He closes his eyes and runs his hands down his chest, imagines that they’re Zayn’s hands touching him, caressing him.  He bites his lip; still he can’t help the whimper that escapes as he tweaks one of his nipples.

“Play with them,” Zayn commands hoarsely, and Harry’s eyes blink open.  “Think you can get them hard for me?”

“Yes,” Harry hisses, pinching a sensitive, delicate nub.  “Wanna be hard and wet all over just for you.”

Zayn lets out a guttural sound as he watches Harry suck on his thumb and forefinger.  They lock eyes as Harry finds a pert nipple, then rolls it between his two fingers.  He does the same to the other side, and it goes straight to his dick this time.  Harry stops at the first twinge he feels, afraid he’ll come in his pants if he isn’t careful. 

“You forgot two,” Zayn reminds coyly.

“Shut it, you.”  Harry ignores the chuckles he gets in response as he curls his thumbs inside the waistband of his trousers.  He tugs them down as far as they’ll go, registers the simpering look on Zayn’s face as the man traces Harry’s prominent v-lines with ravenous eyes.  

“Harry, get on it with it then.”

Harry smirks and releases his waistband with a snap.  He begins undoing his zip at a snail’s pace, one that appears to be making the older boy sweat.  Still, Harry takes his time.  He enjoys the attention, basks in it.  He enjoys winding Zayn up, then unwinding the boy slowly on his terms. 

But more importantly, he knows Zayn is enjoying this.  Harry can tell by the way his breath hitches and stutters, the way he's digging his teeth into his bottom lip now, palming himself with a desperate urgency.  Zayn's captivated by his little show and that knowledge makes Harry want to continue this indefinitely because it's what he's craved for so long—not to be the centre of someone's universe but to be the centre of _Zayn’s_ universe.

To be Zayn’s everything.  To know he's Zayn’s everything if only for the briefest of moments.

The thought doesn't scare him like it probably should.  It terrified him when he was younger, but Harry's a grown man now, and he isn't going to run away.  (Not this time.  Not ever.)

“Stop fucking with me,” Zayn finally growls.

Harry smirks again, then drops his pants and trousers in one go. 

_“Fuck.”_

Harry can’t help but feel a little smug.  “Your turn.”

Zayn doesn’t tease like Harry did.  He’s out of his clothes, socks, and shoes in what has to be record time, cock rock-hard as it slaps against his stomach once it’s released from his pants. 

“Want me that bad, eh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Zayn retorts, actions contrasting sharply with his words as he once again forces Harry up against the wall, one hand pressed firmly against the moth on his chest.  “Just haven’t had a proper shag in ages, is all.”

“When was the last time you had a proper blowie then?”

Zayn opens his mouth but is rendered speechless when Harry flips them so that Zayn’s now the one pinned against the wall.  Zayn’s not complaining though.  He just moans softly as they both revel in the new sensation of skin against skin.

It’s been so long.  So bloody long.

Harry thinks about savouring the moment, about exploring each and every new addition to Zayn’s collection of inked artwork.  He thinks about kissing the boy before him until their lips are raw, maybe rutting against him until they’re both breathless and well-sated.

But then he feels Zayn’s dick pulse against his hip, hard and leaking just for him.  He feels the pull of his own erection, how bloody close he is already, and he knows they won’t have time for any of that.

Besides, he made a promise.  Of sorts.

When Harry drops to his knees, Zayn fucking _mewls_.  It catches Harry off guard because Zayn was always low grunts and ragged breaths.  His ex had always been fairly quiet during sex, as tight-lipped _in_ bed as out of it.  Zayn never showed too much vulnerability, never was one to give away his secrets, but Harry finds none of that reticence now. 

He kisses the tattooed heart and Zayn’s hips stutter forward, almost knocking Harry back.  Again, Harry wishes he could take his time, but he can’t ignore the way Zayn’s cut length is weeping at the slit or the way Zayn’s peering down at him with hooded eyes.

Harry palms over the head, then glides his slick-covered hand down Zayn’s shaft.  The needy boy bucks into his loose grip, and Harry lets him.  He knows Zayn could get off like this if he only gripped tighter.

But he won’t.

Zayn knows it, too.  He lets out a frustrated whine, and Harry can’t help but take pity on him.  He’s teased him long enough tonight.  Harry steadies the boy’s bucking hips with one hand, then guides Zayn into his mouth with the other.  The taste is sweet like a homecoming, and Harry nearly cries because of it. 

The thing is, Zayn’s always tasted better than anyone else.  He’d always smelled better, felt better, given better, _taken_ better.  Harry had long accepted that no one else would ever compare to what they had—between the sheets at least. 

Harry’s known for a long time that his best erogenous experiences were behind him, poisoned with emotional doubt and personal recriminations.

But now, as he feels the heaviness on his tongue, the want in Zayn’s blown pupils, the wonderful familiarity of it all, he’s overcome because it’s everything it once was…only better.  It’s the same intoxicating high but multiplied by a thousand.  It’s all he can do to hold it together as Zayn fucks into his mouth and chases the high Harry already feels building in his own belly, firing his veins, coursing through his entire being. 

Zayn comes with a shout, Harry’s name on his lips.  His hips thrust forward in one majestic movement, like the climactic finale of a symphony by Beethoven.  Harry swallows as best he can, choking out a breath as Zayn gingerly pulls out of his mouth.  Harry is barely able to wrap a hand around himself before he’s coming as well, vision blurred and black around the edges, as he falls to a heap on the floor.  He’s shattered, completely and utterly shattered, inside and out.

“Haz, you alright?”  Zayn’s beside him now, hunched next to him on the hardwood.  “Did I hurt you?”  Harry’s eyes flutter open, but it’s as if he’s forgotten how to formulate words. 

“Haz, baby, talk to me,” Zayn whispers urgently, and it’s so loving and gentle.  It’s everything Harry wishes he deserved but knows he doesn’t.  (Not from this boy at least.)

“Hold me?”

“Of course,” Zayn murmurs against his ear, wrapping him in an embrace that Harry’s probably been yearning for ever since he was stupid enough to cast it away.  Zayn’s fingers thread through his hair, and Harry has almost drifted off when the boy speaks again.  “Do you think you can stand?”

“Maybe.”

Zayn shifts and Harry immediately mourns the loss of his touch.  “Come on, I got you,” Zayn chuckles, holding out his hand.  He pulls Harry to his feet, then hoists him over his shoulder.  It amazes Harry that the wiry writer could lift him, let alone carry him off to bed.

Then again, everything about Zayn amazes him.

They lie together, wrapped in the velvet stillness, touched only by moonbeams and the distant purr of a city that’s beginning to feel more and more like home with every passing day.

“I’ve missed this,” Zayn whispers almost in wonder, words as naked as their bodies.

And if Harry wasn’t already eighty-seven percent asleep, he’d say he missed it, too. 

 

## ***

 

Harry wakes up with a hangover.  He also wakes up with Zayn.

He takes it in stride though.  He doesn’t freak out.  He doesn’t run because, somehow, it feels right.  It feels as if he belongs in this bed, lying beside the man he’s loved since before he was even sure he knew what love was.

There’s a movement behind him, and Harry turns over to find Zayn staring at him—staring at his lips, to be more accurate. 

“Kiss me?” Zayn asks hesitantly, eyes flicking up to meet Harry’s now. 

Harry doesn’t answer (with words anyway).  He throws back the duvet and straddles Zayn, pausing briefly to catalogue everything he sees—from the way the morning light makes the boy beneath him more beautiful than words could ever do justice to the hint of an even more beautiful soul hiding behind those turbulent hazels.  Harry wouldn’t mind staying stuck in this moment forever and maybe that’s why he lingers a little longer…just in case he doesn’t get the chance again, just in case this is the last time.

He bends down to plant a chaste kiss on Zayn’s lips.  As he pulls away, the older boy wraps both his arms around Harry’s neck.  There’s a fierce urgency in those tiger eyes as he draws Harry closer. 

And Harry doesn’t think, doesn’t worry about things like morning breath or the fact that they haven’t kissed—not properly—in over three years.  Harry collapses on top of the lithe, hard body, allows Zayn’s tongue to penetrate the seal of his lips before he’s kissing back with equal fervour.

Their mouths and bodies move together naturally.  It’s not learnt, not a product of muscle memory, because it’s always been this way, always been this effortless from the very beginning.  Zayn’s hands find the small of his back, the curve of his ass, gripping tighter as Harry grinds into him slowly, sensually. 

Zayn had just requested a kiss, but as with most things, they carry it too far. 

Harry sneaks a hand between them, and Zayn moans into his mouth as their cocks slot together.  They kiss sloppily now—bodies moving of their own accord, sheets twisted at their feet—as Harry jerks them off at the same time.  Soon they’re coming in hot and quick spurts, spilling over Harry’s fist, one right after the other.

They’re still panting as Harry drops back onto the bed.  Zayn fetches a flannel, mops up the sticky mess on his abdomen, and tosses it over to Harry who does the same.  Then, they both lie on their backs staring up at the ceiling.

“Good morning,” Harry deadpans, and it sounds like the punchline to a joke. 

“Dork,” Zayn mutters.

“What?”

Zayn rolls over to face him.  “Seriously, mate?  That's the absolute best you can come up with after what we just did?  After…well, everything?”

Harry tries to maintain his poker face.  “Maybe.”

Zayn snorts and shakes his head at the ceiling.

“Well, not all of us are New York Times Bestselling authors,” Harry ribs.  “Some of us are only New York Times Bestselling editors.”  Zayn laughs at that, loud and unreserved.  It makes it harder for Harry to pretend to be annoyed.  “If you jolly well think you can do better, than be my guest.”

“Yeah, reckon I could do loads better.”

“Well, go on then,” Harry prods.  “How would you start the dialogue if you were writing the scene, Mr. Famous Author?”

Zayn doesn’t falter, just gazes directly into his eyes in a way that makes Harry’s heart beat faster.  “Easy.  I’d start by saying… _I love you, Harry_.”

Harry draws in a sharp breath as his vision starts to blur.  He had lost hope of ever getting this back, of ever getting Zayn back. 

But here they are, right where they left off.  ( _Better_ than where they left off.)

“How'd I do?” Zayn asks, voice a little unsure now.

“Smashed it,” Harry manages, wiping away a few happy tears.  “And by the way, if you just said that so you could have a live-in editor for all your future books, then all I can say is…well done you.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “Can I take it back?”

“No,” Harry replies straight-away.  “And just for the record, I’m sort of completely and hopelessly in love with you, too.”

“Good to know,” Zayn murmurs, pressing lazy kisses against Harry’s neck.  “Anything you want to tell me _off_ the record, babe?”

“Well…I _still_ think you should chuck the ending to your book.”

Zayn’s laughter vibrates against his skin.  “Well, can’t change what’s already been published, you sappy git,” he says fondly.  “But who knows?  Maybe I’ll write a sequel one day, give Kahil and Henry that proper, loved-up ending you keep nattering on about.  Would that make you happy?”

“Mhm,” Harry hums contentedly, curling into Zayn’s side, “deliriously happy.”

 

## ***

 

> _Some days, Kahil wishes Henry never left.  He thinks about the time they spent apart, of all the hours and days lost.  He thinks about the love they could have made, the sunsets wasted, the unnecessary anguish.  Then, he recalls the words of his father:_  
> 
> “S _unshine all the time makes a desert, Kahil.”_
> 
> _Some days, Kahil wishes he hadn’t been afraid.  He wishes he would have spoken his heart sooner, laid to rest the doubts in Henry’s mind before they became cancers._
> 
> _Most days, however, Kahil is grateful, in awe of Henry and the once-in-a-lifetime kind of love they share.  He doesn’t question why they were forced to forge a more treacherous path or why they met again as strangers, halfway across the world.  Because the thing between Henry and him—it never should’ve gone that far in the first place._
> 
> _But it did, and he’s gotten it back._ All _of it._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not all heroes wear capes. Some just leave comments and/or kudos. :)  
> Thanks for reading. x


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